


Perigee

by Raletha



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Contest Fic, Drama, Erotica, Friends to Lovers, Get Together, M/M, Post-Series, Romance, Sexual Content, Sweetly Sour: Summer Jubilee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raletha/pseuds/Raletha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quatre decides to give an old dream a new chance. Circa 2003.  Brief mentions of past Quatre/OFC and Trowa/Duo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Perigee placed third in the Traditional Pairings category in the SweetlySour.net Summer Jubilee 2003 contest.

**The US Virgin Islands - Earth - AC 201**

To the careful observer the young blond man seated on the tatty airport bench appeared to have missed his flight, since he had been seated there for the past ninety-seven minutes. However, the careful observer may also have wondered why, if this were the case, the young man was not waiting in the first class lounge, for his dress indicated he was a man of wealth and privilege. The even more astute observer may have wondered what exactly had brought one of the wealthiest men in the Earth Sphere to this humble airport on the island of St. Croix.

Quatre R. Winner had not in fact missed his flight. He was rather awaiting the arrival of an old friend, one whom he had not seen for the past four and a half years. A friend for whom -- despite the time and distance that had grown in their friendship -- he waited with an entire flock of butterflies madly rampaging through his digestive organs.

For what seemed like the three-thousandth time, Quatre exhaled heavily, snagged the chain at his hip, and tugged out his pocket watch. With a tap of his thumb the cover flicked back revealing that only four minutes had passed since the last time he had checked. Trowa's flight was on time and scheduled to land in another thirteen minutes.

Few other people populated the international terminal at this time. Perhaps because June lay in the off-season for the islands, but perhaps also, Quatre had concluded, because this was a tourist destination. No one came to meet arrivals because none of the travelers were returning home. And thus Quatre was the only person (at least so far) waiting for the five-o'clock flight from Miami.

He unrolled the mangled magazine in his lap -- the publication had borne the brunt of his fidgeting -- and promptly rolled it back up again. His mind was anywhere but on Intersphere Business Week. This was his vacation; he had come to escape such things for the next seven days. Quatre didn't even know what had prompted him to purchase the magazine. Habit most likely.

With a sneer of disgust he tossed the periodical, spear-like, toward the nearest rubbish bin. It easily cleared the opening cut into the top of the receptacle and made a dull clang when it hit the metal side. Quatre smiled.

His attention turned to the wide, peaked arches of the airport's windows. Beyond, like any other airport, was tarmac, adorned by scurrying service vehicles and lumbering aircraft. Beyond that, however, lay palm trees and the bluest ocean Quatre had ever seen. This was the first airport in which Quatre had waited that didn't smell of jet-fuel, but instead of fresh flowers and fresh air.

Five minutes remained, and a handful of new faces had finally accumulated at the arrival gate. Most held signs with the name of the party whom they were to pick up. A few others appeared to be natives, judging by their dress. It cheered Quatre to think that some of the people on the incoming flight had friendly faces to greet them. He still hadn't gotten used to being met at air and spaceports by no one who wasn't on his payroll.

Quatre stood and wandered over to join the tiny crowd scattered near the gate's doors. He remained near the back and straightened his light suit. This was followed by a vain attempt at banishing wrinkles from the linen. No wonder the Caribbean was so relaxed; it was impossible to look professional in this sultry climate.

Dry heat he could manage, but humidity had made the wrinkles stubborn, and Quatre soon gave up. He wanted to look nice for Trowa -- it had been so long -- but he doubted that his friend would even notice the wrinkles. Quatre blew at his bangs and clasped his hands behind his back to curtail any further fussing. Perhaps Megan was right, that pursuing the past was a fool's venture. Nevertheless she had supported his decision to come, and despite her skepticism, it had even been her idea: to do this -- take this chance -- before it was too late.

It seemed an eternity before the gate's doors opened, and Quatre's heart skipped a beat as the first disembarking passengers came into view. He had to remind himself to breathe and forced himself to keep his feet flat on the ground instead of standing on tiptoes like an impatient child.

At first it was a mere trickle of passengers, all exiting the gangway and roving through the small expectant gathering without making eye contact. The first class passengers always looked so determined, but they soon gave way to the economy class patrons. Quatre frowned. The tickets he'd sent to Trowa had been first class. Trowa should have been one of the first off the flight. But now there were families, groups of young men or women, and a smattering of elderly couples.

Several times Quatre would catch sight of a promising trait on one of the young men and look at him harder, his pulse accelerating, only to be dismayed when the man in question met someone else or strode away on his own. It was possible that he wouldn't immediately recognise Trowa; the years they'd been apart were those years in which one changed the most. Quatre didn't know how tall Trowa was now, if he'd gained weight, changed his hairstyle -- or anything really.

The stream of passengers dwindled until the pauses between succeeding people were drawn into the tens of seconds. Cold gripped Quatre's gut when a pair of flight attendants rolled an elderly man in a wheelchair through the door followed by the rest of the flight crew.

But then, just as incredulous despair prickled along Quatre's spine, a familiar bearing accompanying a tall silhouette came into view from behind the bobbing bodies in the foreground. The flight crew marched off and suddenly Trowa was there, immediately and joyfully recognizable -- and, apart from the satchel he carried, looking like he'd just stepped out of a print advertisement for designer jeans.

He didn't see Quatre immediately, and Quatre resisted the urge to jump up and wave his arms in order to catch his friend's attention. Instead he simply raised one hand and called out in a calm, conversational tone, "Trowa!"

Their eyes met, and Quatre saw Trowa's widen as he approached with a few long strides and a surprisingly easy smile curving his lips.

"Quatre, wow..." Trowa's smile quickly broadened to a grin as his eyes swept over the blond man. "You look great."

Quatre felt his face heat and his own smile grow to embarrassing proportions under his friend's scrutiny. "So do you, you look..." Words were inadequate to describe the way the white t-shirt clung to Trowa's upper body, or the way the deep blue denim flattered his long legs, or just how astonishingly vibrant those green eyes were after having not seen them for so long. "Incredible."

They stood grinning at each other for a moment more before Trowa let his bag slip from his hand and in unspoken accord they embraced. "It's so good to see you," said Trowa, his voice weighted with real warmth.

It was, as it had always been, an ambiguous sort of hug between them: friendly enough, but a bit more than that too. Quatre found Trowa's arms slung about his waist just a fraction lower than was strictly friendly; his own arms held his friend just a little more tightly than was strictly platonic, and their torsos pressed together for a lingering moment that sent Quatre's breath fleeing until they broke apart.

But, as Quatre reminded himself, confusing hugs had been the way of things for him and Trowa. At least one thing was the same between them so far. Although, other things had stayed the same as well. Quatre found that, despite his own teenage growth spurt, at six feet he was still slightly shorter than his friend. Likely it was the same two inches it had always been. Standing this close to Trowa, Quatre also found the same tantalising scent clung to Trowa -- even stronger than the stale smell of recycled air. He'd never been able to determine whether it was cologne Trowa wore, or just Trowa: warm, vital, and fresh. Quatre resisted leaning closer.

Not everything was the same. The green eyes meeting his no longer hid behind an auburn veil. Trowa's hair, though it remained styled in a similar manner, was shorter in the front, with the bangs hanging just past Trowa's eyebrows. Now fully revealed, were the handsome features Quatre had once only been able to glimpse in fleeting, cherished moments.

The million different words and phrases Quatre had rehearsed to say upon seeing Trowa again vanished in the simple pleasure of standing there, sharing space with the young man whom he considered the best friend he'd ever had. Finally a few words did manage to reach his mouth.

"Do you have a bag?"

"Yeah."

So they headed off, following the large yellow and black signs proclaiming the way to baggage claim. Frequently their eyes met in a sidelong glance, and the smiles wavered from neither man's face. But after a while, it seemed silly -- the wide smiles and sparse dialogue. The silence between them tensed with the need to be relieved. With the past five years of scarce communication -- and with what communication there had been being of a distinctly non-intimate variety -- Quatre felt as if his throat were a dam, holding back the volume and pressure of all the things that had gone unsaid. Especially the things that had remained unsaid from the beginning of their friendship. Where was he to start?

"How was your flight?" Quatre asked as they stepped onto an escalator going down.

"The one from Miami was nice and short. Coming in from the Colonies was less fun, but the food was surprisingly good." Trowa laughed softly, once. "I entertained myself by eating slowly."

They reached the ground floor and glanced around for which carousal would be hosting the baggage from Trowa's flight.

"You arrived yesterday?" Trowa asked while they meandered over to where his fellow flight mates were assembling.

Quatre registered Trowa's question with some delay, having been distracted by the way the cotton of Trowa's t-shirt wrapped his friend's biceps so snugly. "Yes," he said, "I stayed at a hotel in Charlotte Amelie -- that's where we'll take the ferry to get to St. John. It's only twenty minutes away. Charlotte Amelie, that is. The ferry takes forty-five minutes."

A loud buzz blared over the hum of conversation, and the baggage carousel lurched into motion.

"So I'm not too far away from a shower?"

"Not too far."

"Good. I can't believe I used to have to go for days or weeks without a decent shower or bath." Trowa wrinkled his nose: an entirely unexpected expression on the face Quatre recalled having been far less prone to extravagant contortions. "These days, twenty four hours is my limit," Trowa said.

"Long flights are the worst, too."

"Yeah." Trowa's attention appeared to be caught by a dark blue duffel bag. "That's mine," he said, and squeezed between two other passengers to collect it as it came into reach.

Quatre watched Trowa and tried to think of things to say, ways to start a conversation. But other desires warred with that intention. He hadn't thought it possible for Trowa -- or at the very least, Trowa's body -- to have become even more appealing than it had been. It was difficult not to stare at the tight denim-clad rear Trowa presented when bending to pick up his bag, or the tantalising way the contours of his gymnastics-sculpted torso shifted beneath thin white cotton. Quatre raised his gaze to the ceiling and tapped his fingertips against his thumbs, silently cursing himself for being both at the mercy of his baser urges, and thus far unable to say anything outside the realm of banal small talk.

Small talk with which Trowa no longer expressed impatience. It perplexed Quatre that not only did Trowa smile more easily now, but he also tolerated, initiated, and participated in that most frivolous of social niceties: small talk.

When Trowa stepped back up to him, bag in hand, Quatre quickly took it from him and waved toward the exits. "We can get a taxi."

"No limousine?" Trowa asked, abandoning an attempt at taking his bag back from Quatre, who turned and started walking.

"I'm slumming it this week," he said over his shoulder.

Trowa chuckled and followed Quatre outside.

 

It was all beginning to feel like a very bad idea indeed to Quatre as he jiggled the brass key in the door of their bungalow. Who still used metal keys anyway? Perhaps it was intended to be quaint, but right now, Quatre just wanted into his -- their -- room. Why hadn't he booked separate cabins -- or at the very least a cabin with two bedrooms?

Quatre glared at the doorknob in the hope it might volunteer to take some of the blame. But he knew it was simply that his fantasies about this vacation had run away with him. He gave the door another stern look -- the sort he'd cultivated to make even his most stubborn vice president quail -- and finally the lock relented. He got the door open, swung it wide, and gestured for Trowa to precede him into their cabin.

One look about the spacious living area and Trowa asked, "This is slumming it?"

Even to Quatre, whom experience had inured to hotel style luxury, the cabin was impressive. Windows, which extended from the middle of the wall to the ceiling, wrapped generously about the cabin's perimeter. Their slatted shutters sat folded at their edges and their glass panes had already been opened to the balmy summer breeze. The rafters of the room were open up into the shallow peak of the roof, exposing wood stained in soft honey tones, below which spun lazily a pair of wicker ceiling fans.

The timber of the floor, buffed smooth as satin, was adorned by a velvety rug in deep reds, greens, and golds. Dark, polished wood made up the furniture while lavish tropical prints covered the chairs, sofa, and cushions. The combination of traditional European styles and native patterns reflected well the island's colonial heritage.

"I probably don't want to know how much you're paying for this, do I?" said Trowa from where he stood in the center of the room, taking in the rich furnishings.

"It's been a while, Trowa," Quatre said, moving toward the open double doors of the bedroom with his suitcase. "Can't I spoil you a little?" he teased and then hesitated at the doors: a single four-posted king-size bed dominated the room; its sumptuous ivory linens and generous array of pillows boldly tempted lovers to linger and play.

"Yes, you can," Trowa said. Quatre quickly forced his manner to nonchalance as he tossed his suitcase onto the wide bed and unlocked it. Trowa's next words came louder, from the doorway behind him. "But only because if our positions were reversed, I'd do the same for you."

"Well, good. You never were that good at accepting gifts. I'm pleased you're coping better now."

"There's only one bed." Trowa's tone was bland enough that Quatre couldn't tell whether his friend thought this a fortunate arrangement or not.

Somehow Quatre managed to remain relaxed; he'd expected a question or comment concerning the sleeping arrangements. Even so, he felt a brief flush of warmth -- embarrassment or mild arousal, he wasn't sure. "I guess the cabin design assumes..." he started, but broke off to offer Trowa other options. "I can sleep on the couch or arrange for a cot or something, I'm sure."

"No, don't worry about it. The bed is large enough I doubt we'll end up kicking each other. Anyway, it'll be like the old days when we had to share."

"Yeah, like the old days," Quatre agreed and looked up to see Trowa opposite him across the bed, setting down his own bag and unzipping it.

"I'm going to hit the shower," Trowa said, digging out a toiletry kit and fresh clothes. "If you don't mind. Wash off the shuttle and airplane."

"Of course."

Quatre quickly stowed his clothes in the room's small dresser and wardrobe. In his peripheral vision, he saw the bathroom door open just a crack. True, modesty had never been one of Trowa's virtues -- or vices -- but that didn't keep Quatre from briefly wondering if the open door were a sort of symbolic invitation. Regardless, he didn't feel comfortable guessing. He moved to the bedroom window and, resting his eyes on the vista of turquoise water and lush terrain, allowed his mind to relax.

It had always been easiest to sense the other pilots, and of the five, Trowa had always felt the most comfortable and immediately accepting. After five years of tight discipline of his empathy, allowing his awareness to diffuse and expand from within his own skull was like sinking into a hot bath on a cold day. He directed his senses to the dripping staccato of the shower and the man beneath the water. Images of slick naked flesh, Quatre banished, concentrating instead on finding Trowa -- finding the unobtrusive calm that had always characterised the former pilot.

Where was it? Quatre fumbled, trying to alight his spaceheart on anything not an echo of his own feelings. Just there, a dim shape at the edge of his awareness, slightly beyond his direct focus he found it. But as he tried to bend his mind to attend to Trowa, it slipped out of reach again. He tried again, and failed again. Quatre felt his body tensing as if his physical muscle could affect his extrasensory ability. Like a wet piece of soap, it slipped and skidded out of his grasp each time he reached for it.

He tried to be quicker; he tried to be slower. It didn't matter. By the time Quatre heard the shower stop, sweat had formed on his brow and his breath was short. He redirected his attention back to the view, watching the exotic trees lining the path to the beach gracefully bob and bow in the early evening breeze.

"Cat?" The old nickname delivered in Trowa's gentle tenor pierced Quatre's mental fog. "Are you okay?"

Quatre cleared his throat to reply. "Jetlagged I guess." He wrapped his arms about himself despite the warmth of the air. Even without any empathic sense of Trowa, Quatre could imagine his friend's anxiety. It nibbled along his spine, bored into the back of his head. Maybe it was just his own nerves. Quatre resisted turning around. Instead he continued to gaze across the bay, its blues and greens fading into greys as the sky slowly turned to amber.

He shivered at the light touch on his shoulder that moved in halting progress to his hair, brushing intangible as a breeze across the curls at his collar. And then the touch was gone.

Now he turned, to meet two curious green eyes. He studied Trowa's face for a moment; the shorter hair wasn't so hard to get used to. In fact he liked it, the way it showed off the angular symmetry of Trowa's features. But even with the shorter bangs, Quatre still fought the desire to reach out and brush the shower damp strands from Trowa's forehead. Was there a good reason to keep resisting that urge? Quatre banished his discomfort with a smile and started to raise his hand, but then Trowa stepped back and turned away.

"I told Catherine I'd ring when I arrived, so she'd know I got here safely," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

That evening they enjoyed a pleasant dinner in the resort's less formal dining room -- ostensibly so Trowa wouldn't have to change from his freshly donned jeans and casual button up shirt, the pastel coral shade of which flattered Trowa's complexion. Quatre, happy to discreetly admire Trowa dressed as he was, changed instead -- to a pair of navy cotton slacks and a white polo shirt.

And Quatre wondered as they dined: how had things with Trowa suddenly become so blandly pleasant? The food was delicious with meticulous attention to presentation; their table quiet and private set in a secluded windowed corner. Outside, small garden lamps gently illuminated the lush and colourful courtyard. It was an ideal venue for intimate conversation. However, such conversation neither young man initiated. They talked about the present: the food, the trip, and planned a trip to an historic nature reserve for the following day.

After dinner, they took the long way back to their cabin to enjoy the balmy night and the soothing rhythm of the ocean. As they made their way down to the beach and along the water's edge, Trowa gave Quatre an opening to address other issues with the obvious, but hitherto neglected query: "So what have you been up to?"

"Ah, well, work mostly." Quatre winced at his dull answer, and tried to scavenge some tidbit of work detail that just might be of interest to Trowa. "It's been challenging. Especially since Winner Enterprises went public."

Trowa surprised him. "I bought stock," his friend said.

Quatre pulled his gaze from the mercury reflection of the moon upon the water. "You did? In Winner Enterprises?"

"Yeah." Trowa's smile wasn't the new, easy version Quatre had been seeing since meeting Trowa in the airport. No, it was the old, tentative smile. The one that only tugged at the left side of his mouth in the barest hint of warmth, but what warmth the actual smile lacked could be found easily in the softened aspect of his eyes.

"But we're a dreadful short term investment at the moment, we've been running in the red the last three years." Discussing business with Trowa held something of the surreal. They used to talk about politics, religion, personal philosophies, books, music, history -- but never business.

Trowa shrugged. "I wasn't planning on a short term investment."

Something about the way Trowa said those words sent a flush of warmth through Quatre. "You should be okay over the long term, but I don't anticipate us making that much of a profit for some time to come."

"You've been diversifying a lot." Trowa spoke carefully and turned his gaze to the pale sand beneath their feet, as if he wasn't wholly certain the words he used were the right ones.

Hoping to encourage more conversation of substance -- even if it were work related -- Quatre spoke brightly, "Yeah, well, I really feel that there's a huge opportunity for the Colonies now -- now that the wars are over, and freedom of communication and travel has been restored."

Trowa continued to demonstrate his interest with intent eyes and soft spoken questions for clarification of some point or another, and soon, Quatre found himself divulging to Trowa even his most whimsical plans for the future of Winner Enterprises. He talked about his eventual hope to enhance tourism among the Earth, the Moon, and the Colonies. Luxury inter-colony cruises he speculated, would promote investment in outer space, help heal the ideological rift between Earth and space, and move the Colonies beyond their traditional status of economic servitude.

This was more like the old days: talking about dreams and feeling the incredible lightness of being that came from being heard and encouraged -- from talking to someone who expressed genuine interest and support of those dreams. Quatre knew he'd missed Trowa, but he'd forgotten so much of what he missed.

One thing remained absent though. Trowa seemed reticent to volunteer his own deeper thoughts and opinions. But then, perhaps that wasn't so different from the past. It always took longer for Trowa to feel comfortable expressing personal aspects of himself. Nevertheless, Quatre began to feel he dominated the evening's discussion too much and gradually allowed silence to overtake his words. It was, at least, a companionable silence.

Silence led Quatre's mind back to other beaches. Having grown up in space, he could easily recall the only other times he'd been on a beach. The first had been with Heero and the dogs after they'd been taken into OZ custody on Earth. After Quatre had believed he'd killed his best friend. Tears of remembrance stung the backs of Quatre's eyes and he glanced at his silent companion to reaffirm his presence now.

The second time he'd been leading the Maguanac Corps in the defense of the Sanq kingdom. That had not been a joyful day either.

Trowa's arm brushed past his elbow and brought him back to the present. With this third time, it seemed that he'd finally made a good memory of a beach.

 

The next day, as planned, Quatre arranged for a picnic lunch, and he and Trowa headed off to hike through the island's main park. It was what had drawn Quatre to this destination: that St. John had long ago been set aside as a nature sanctuary and had thus avoided the most obscene commercial development which dominated the other Caribbean islands.

They spent the morning following meandering paths, maps and guidebooks in hand. Trowa had a keen eye for spotting any signs of animal life, and so, by the time they'd made it to the highest hilltop in the park and settled down for lunch, Quatre realised he'd easily tripled the number of bird species he'd observed in the wild.

Approaching noon, the day had grown hot. Even with the light breeze they found at the hill's summit, the direct heat of the sun had Quatre sweating. Once they'd laid their picnic blanket in the tall grass, he wasted no time in stripping off his shirt, loosening his belt, and sprawling on his back. He adjusted his sunglasses and stared up at the cloudless indigo blue sky. The still heat on his sweat damp skin, though intermittently broken by the caress of a warm breeze, threatened to lull him to sleep.

Quatre turned his head as Trowa settled beside him. His friend sat, leaning his elbows on his bent knees, his eyes invisible behind the black lenses of his sunglasses. He'd also doffed his shirt and his space-paled skin gleamed beneath a light film of perspiration. Quatre's eyes were drawn to the firm muscles bunched at Trowa's waist, the small ovals of his nipples, and the way the flush of heat and exertion had stained Trowa's lips a dark reddish shade, the colour of a late fall apple.

"I hope we remembered the sunscreen," Quatre said, conscious of his own skin which had not seen natural sunlight for a very long time. The last thing he wanted was for either of them to get burned. He'd been sunburnt once, and once was enough.

Trowa hesitated only briefly before pulling their day pack onto the blanket and rummaging through it. He pulled out the yellow plastic bottle and, his expression unreadable, prompted, "Turn over."

Quatre did so, folding his arms to form a makeshift pillow for his head. Trowa's hands, even after all this time, were a familiar presence on his back as his friend applied the slippery lotion to his skin. The experience was not unlike the massages he and Trowa had traded when on Peacemillion. It had been the pinnacle of their physical relationship: safe seeming and easily excused by the practicalities of relieving stress and sore muscles.

Although, as Quatre recalled, that hadn't stopped either of them from stealing the occasional less practical touch: a hand that slipped to brush across a nipple, or a stroke along a thigh that reached just a little too far up the leg of either's boxer shorts. Of course, a hasty apology always followed, and the minor infractions were quickly forgiven -- but never forgotten. The resulting mutual arousal and matching erections never received vocal acknowledgement.

As if saying nothing would keep feelings platonic. As if saying something now were an easy thing? And though Trowa's hands had found a seductive rhythm working the sunscreen over Quatre's bare back, they didn't slip once.

After Quatre had sat back up and applied lotion to his own chest and arms -- with Trowa making sure the backs of his arms had received enough coverage -- they traded places without speaking. Trowa's back was hot from the sun, and his skin felt smooth as silk under Quatre's touch. He moved his hands, following the lines of bone and muscle. He took more time than was strictly necessary, but Trowa didn't complain.

Once they were both protected from the prospect of burns, Quatre unpacked their food. The hotel had catered the picnic with typical attention to detail. Inside the picnic pack he found real china plates and crystal wine glasses. They had a feast of fresh breads, soft cheeses, fruit, savoury spreads, and salads -- all accompanied by a light, chilled wine selected to complement the other flavours perfectly.

Trowa lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows while cutting a large mango. The juice dribbled over his hands and down his forearms. Quatre watched as he sliced a small portion of the fruit and tossed it into the grass before him.

"There're some ants," Trowa explained without being asked. "Maybe if I share, they'll leave the rest of the food alone."

"I guess it wouldn't be a picnic on Earth without some insect interlopers." Quatre took the mango segment handed to him.

"No," Trowa said, setting his fruit aside and scooting to the edge of the blanket to get a better look at the tiny creatures. "It's nice to be back on Earth. I always forget how sterile the Colonies are in comparison."

"Yeah, I don't care how good the technology is for recycling the air, it always feels cleaner and fresher here." Quatre lowered himself to his side. "Even though it's probably not. It just feels better."

"It does." Trowa rolled to his back, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. "And the sky. I think I miss the sky most of all. Seeing nothing but blue and the sun above the clouds."

"Have you ever thought about moving back to Earth, Trowa?"

"I have. I want to some day."

"Why haven't you?"

"All the people I care about are in the Colonies."

At that Quatre allowed the conversation to lapse, distracted once more by his own thoughts, and frustrated by his inability to gain any purchase on the emotions of his friend. He wanted to ask if he were one of those people Trowa stayed in space for. He wanted to ask Trowa about those things he could no longer feel. Did Trowa still like touching him? Did he still like being touched? Did he still harbour those feelings that both of them had recognised, but neither had possessed the courage to address five -- even six -- years ago.

But now -- as then -- Quatre couldn't bring himself to say anything. How could he ask anything more of Trowa than his friend had already given to him? And given so freely, without regard for Trowa's own safety or sanity. Faith, trust, and deep friendship -- a friendship which he himself had neglected. It was more than Quatre had been given by anyone.

"You don't seem that happy, Quatre." Trowa spoke so softly, Quatre wasn't sure he'd heard him.

"Pardon me?"

"You." Trowa didn't look at him. "You don't seem that happy to me."

"Compared to what?"

"I don't know. Yourself?"

Quatre sighed and sat up, leaning forward over his crossed legs to fidget with the hem of his trousers. "I've been busy with work. I'm tired. This vacation has been overdue. I've just been tired."

"So why haven't we seen each other until now?" Trowa said, as unrelentingly direct as Quatre remembered.

"I don't know. I've been busy." Quatre realised he was repeating himself, but didn't understand why he couldn't bring himself to offer a more accurate explanation. "But anytime, Trowa, I would have made time for you."

"I didn't want to add to the feeding frenzy."

"Feeding frenzy?"

"After the war, all the people surrounding you, fussing over you and prepping you for taking over WE."

"Oh." Feeding frenzy was an apt description for those hectic times.

"Yeah."

Quatre caught the tail end of a smile fading from Trowa's lips when he looked at his friend. "I missed you though," he said softly.

"I didn't want to add to the burden, Quatre, or complicate your life any more than it was already."

"Why would you be a burden?"

"You were caged by the expectations of all those people -- I couldn't be one of those people."

"I would have liked you to be there."

"You didn't tell me that." Trowa's tone was flat.

Without any other sense of Trowa to rely on, it seemed like he just didn't care that much. But Quatre knew him well enough to know that wasn't the case. "Would it have made a difference?" he prompted.

It was several breaths before Trowa answered with an honest, "I don't know."

"Did you," Quatre swallowed, struggling to work his words around the sudden lump in his throat. "Did you ever miss me?"

Trowa didn't reply immediately, and his lips formed a tense grimace. "More than anything."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Was it what Quatre had suspected -- that Trowa was willing to accept missing him if it meant keeping their relationship from growing into anything more?

"Would it have made a difference?" Trowa asked, and though the words mimicked Quatre's, his tone wasn't mocking.

"Yes, it would have," Quatre said, hoping his words held the earnestness he felt.

"That's why I didn't tell you."


	3. Chapter 3

Unsurprisingly, by that evening the tension from earlier had only increased -- at least for Quatre -- and a better evaluation of Trowa's mood persisted in eluding him. Thus, he proposed a drink before dinner, and they decided to check out the resort's jazz bar. In Quatre's experience, there was something about live jazz and overpriced mixed drinks that could make even the most fretful day better.

Like all the architecture of the resort, the bar had been built to avail itself of the island's native beauty and gentle climate. Numerous pairs of French doors opened out onto a patio lit by flickering torches. The patio, flanked by trellised flowering vines, was positioned to take advantage of the view -- equally spectacular at night with the scattering of boat lights on the bay being insufficient to dull the splendour of the stars above. It seemed like such a cheat, that once one lived in outer space, one could no longer see the stars.

Quatre chose a table outside, beneath an overhanging vine strewn lattice, far enough from the small stage that he and Trowa could converse without needing to yell at one another. Once they'd settled comfortably and had been served their drinks, Quatre scoured his mind for a conversation opening that might lead to more information regarding Trowa's present feelings toward him -- toward them.

He noticed Trowa watching a young woman, who had just entered the bar and stood fidgeting with the fringe of her light shawl. She was attractive enough -- in whatever way most men measured these things with women: dark of hair and eye, medium height, and slim with the drape of her sundress hinting at generous curves in the right places. Surely Trowa wasn't interested in her? That wondering led Quatre to his opening. He kept his inflection friendly, yet bland.

"So, Trowa, are you seeing anyone? Has Catherine found you a girlfriend?"

A young man arrived, escorted the woman inside, and Trowa lifted his drink, turning his attention to Quatre's question. "Girlfriend?" An amused smile curved Trowa's lips against the rim of his glass. He took a sip before continuing. "No, I don't now and never have had a girlfriend, Quatre. You know me better than that. Besides, Cathy knows I'm gay." And there it was. The answer to the question of sexual orientation that had never been answered directly between them. It didn't surprise Quatre that Trowa would be the one to handle it in the more relaxed fashion.

"Of course you don't," Quatre said, accompanying his words with a smile and a casual wink in the hope that if he implied his question had been merely a jest, he could save himself any further faux pas. "Boyfriend then?"

A ghost of a frown creased Trowa's forehead before vanishing as if it had never been there. "Not at present," Trowa said, "but I was seeing someone for a while."

"Anyone I know?" Quatre teased, not expecting the answer he received.

"Yes."

The mellow rhythm of the jazz band turned tinny and harsh. The trombone blared uncomfortably loud. "Who?" Quatre asked although he couldn't think of a single answer that would be easily acceptable.

"Duo," said Trowa, pulling the garnish from his glass and depositing it on his napkin. He slid the tiny blue umbrella free from the cherry and the orange slice.

"Duo?" Quatre repeated, his voice sounded hollow to his own ears. He turned his gaze to the hand curled around his glass. He couldn't feel his fingers. He hadn't even realised Duo's preferences lay in that direction.

"Yeah, Duo."

Quatre looked at Trowa's fingers instead of his own. They plucked the stem from the cherry and worked along its length with fingernails to break it in millimeter long intervals.

"You seem surprised."

"He never told me... you two?" The two men he considered his closest friends, and they'd kept this from him? Quatre couldn't fathom how he felt about it -- about their being together, about them not telling him. Whatever it was he was feeling, it felt about as good as taking a direct blast from a beam cannon. Sudden, sharp, and shocking.

Trowa shrugged, abandoning the ruined cherry stem in favour of the orange slice. "We have a lot in common. A lot more than you'd think."

"Are you and he still...?" Quatre went through a listing of all the verbs he could use to finish that sentence, and didn't like a single one of them.

"No. I said I wasn't seeing anyone currently." Did Trowa sound defensive? "We weren't serious. It was just a comfortable, mutual... thing."

Quatre gulped down the tail end of his cocktail, barely registering the sweet tang of the tequila laden pineapple juice. His next question came without thought. "Did you love him?"

Trowa's gaze jerked up from where it had been observing his careful separation of orange flesh from orange rind. "No more than friendship."

That was at least a relief, though Quatre felt selfish and petty for being so relieved. However, he knew how much Trowa prized the people close to him. Whatever had been between Trowa and Duo, Quatre hoped it remained an affectionate relationship. "Are you still friends?"

"Yes. Of course. You know I don't like to lose friends."

Yes, of course they'd still be close. Friends were gold to Trowa, and now Quatre found a shard of guilt driving through his heart. He and Trowa had been as close as two people could be without being sexually involved as well, and he'd nearly abandoned that friendship out of what -- fear?

There was only one thing to say. It didn't seem like enough. "I'm sorry, Trowa."

His friend opened his mouth to speak, his expression plainly one of confusion. But instead of the 'why' Quatre expected, Trowa exhaled heavily and simply said, "Don't be. Please don't be sorry, Quatre. About anything."

 

Somehow they made it to dinner. Quatre already had the feeling this was going to be a night better left forgotten. How could he have allowed so much distance to drive Trowa -- and now Duo, it seemed -- so far from his life? When the waiter took their drink orders, Quatre asked for a bottle of their finest champagne -- to celebrate a friendship renewed, he told Trowa. The truth was, he hoped that after a few glasses, he'd feel a little more at ease with the situation.

The first glass did nothing to mitigate the sudden horror of Trowa's next words.

"I was surprised to hear you're engaged." Trowa's tone was conversational enough, but Quatre couldn't help but wonder: Why those words? Why now? And what right did Quatre have to be disgruntled at Trowa's failure to tell him about Duo when his own transgressions had been far more grave?

"Oh," was the most eloquence Quatre could muster, but he looked for more in a second glass quickly poured. He didn't want to have to explain the engagement or Megan to Trowa. It was all so mercenary and pathetic. "I didn't realise you'd heard about that."

"Cathy subscribes to some of those celebrity gossip magazines. Whenever you're in one, she tells me. She knows we were close so, you can blame her." Trowa's smile looked forced.

"I don't really pay attention to those things," Quatre said as if that somehow excused his lapse -- and his cowardice.

"I didn't think you would." Trowa tried to smile again.

"No."

Conversation paused while they were served, and then resumed. "What's she like, this... Megan Gates?"

"She's great," Quatre began. He couldn't dismiss Megan, she'd been the one to convince him to take this holiday and see Trowa. As much as marriage would have been professionally and socially beneficial to them both -- and as cynical as she was toward anything smelling faintly of romance -- once she knew about Trowa, she'd insisted Quatre determine whether any potential remained between the two former pilots.

She'd also insisted upon ending the engagement. "If you're gay, Quatre?" she'd said. "There's no way I'd expect you to live this kind of lie. Digging up the past is probably a fool's venture, but you'll never forgive yourself if you don't at least try."

Across the table, Quatre saw Trowa waiting patiently for him to continue. He did. "This vacation was her idea. We'd gotten engaged for PR type reasons, and... I don't know why else. It seemed like a good idea. I'd been thinking about... thinking about..." Quatre glared at his dinner as his stomach lurched in protestation of it. He reached for his glass and took a long swallow.

"Thinking about what?"

"It'd be good for business if I... settled down. Weddings are good publicity, you know. They help investor confidence, and I liked her well enough. She's smart and interesting."

"And pretty from the pictures I've seen."

"Yes, she's pretty too."

"How did you meet her?"

"Through business, her father introduced us while we were negotiating the Techsoft merger."

"Of course."

He had to tell Trowa. Megan had insisted, and he owed it to her at least, for putting her through his crises and indecision. But he couldn't tell Trowa the dominant reasons for the failure with Megan. Not yet at least. Other reasons made just as much sense. "I didn't..." Quatre broke off with a frown. I didn't think I could ever love her. Was that a horrible thing to say about someone?

"Didn't what?"

"I didn't think I could love her. We're not engaged any longer. It's just not public yet." Quatre delivered the words quickly, fervently hoping Trowa wouldn't press him on any further details. Fortunately, Trowa seemed content at that and allowed Quatre to guide the conversation to less turbulent waters.

 

Finally dinner was over and Quatre was pleased they were taking the shorter route back to their cabin. The only problem with the shorter route was the winding tree-flanked path, which required more attention than usual after the influence of three-quarters of a bottle of champagne and the Tequila Sunrise which had preceded it. Fortunately, Quatre was unable to muster much indignation at the uncooperative trail: that Trowa had called him a 'cute drunk' some ten or so minutes ago had bled off the full potency of his intoxicated ire.

He might be tiddly, but he certainly wasn't drunk.

In an effort to demonstrate his mental clarity, Quatre determined the best course of action was to continue with his aim of restoring a close friendship with Trowa.

"Wow, I can't believe you were with Duo," he blurted, after discarding the less worthy query after Catherine's health, and the dreadfully dull questions regarding Trowa's educational goals.

"Well, I was," said Trowa. Quatre hoped his friend would elaborate. He remembered that Trowa could be talkative. One need only ask him the right questions or prompt him with insightful commentary.

"You know, I can see how the two of you could get along. I mean, you're both orphans and alone in that way. I guess he's, his life is more accessible to you than someone like me." Quatre nodded to emphasize his words. "I can see that."

"Quatre..." A note of warning resided in Trowa's tone, but Quatre chose to ignore it, preferring to show his newfound and determined support for his friend.

"So how'd you two get together anyway?" Good friends were interested in each other's lives. This was all important to Trowa, and so, it was important to Quatre as well.

Trowa made a small sound of exasperation or disappointment -- or perhaps even indigestion. It was hard to tell. "Each time the circus was on L2, Duo and I would hang out. And he, well, he'd look me up whenever he could."

Quatre tried to dismiss the queasiness in his stomach. He knew he was well within his limits for drink, and the food had all been good. He wasn't sure what the source of his gastronomic distress was. "And? So, who kissed whom first?" Quatre hoped the smile on his face didn't appear, from the outside, as plastic as it felt from the inside. "How did it happen?"

"Why are you asking me this, Cat?" Trowa looked at him sideways. "Do you really want to know?"

"Sure! You're my friend, friends talk about this kind of thing, right?"

"I suppose," Trowa relented but Quatre was certain his friend still sounded skeptical. "We just... " Trowa shrugged before he continued, speaking more softly. "One night when we'd been out late together, neither of us wanted to go home alone. That's all. That's how it happened."

Quatre felt his stomach twist at the implications. He swayed on his feet, jarring his shoulder against the trunk of an inconsiderate tree, and decided maybe he didn't really need the details, even if Trowa were willing to divulge them. "So, um, why'd you break up? You both deserve to be happy. You really do."

"Duo and I, we're friends and for a while we had a physical relationship. We're still good friends. We didn't really break up, we just decided to stop having s... that physical part of our relationship. It wasn't a grand romance or anything, Quatre."

"Oh."

"Happy?"

"Don't know. Um..." Were those tears blurring his vision suddenly? Was it wrong of him to wonder why, if Trowa had wanted someone to be close to, he hadn't come to him first?

"What is it?" asked Trowa, his voice suddenly more gentle.

"I... why not...? Why not..." Quatre couldn't finish his question; he didn't want to know the answer: Why not me? Not only that, but he was having enough trouble following the curving path they took through the tropical foliage.

He stared at his feet to ensure he placed them correctly and nearly fell when a hand closed over his shoulder, he looked up and immediately regretted it; his vision spun as Trowa turned him around. In the gloom he tried to meet Trowa's eyes, and tried to read his expression. Dark eyes searched his, but Quatre didn't know what they sought.

To fend off his intoxicated dizziness Quatre closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, but then there was warmth -- warm breath preceded warm flesh pressed against his mouth. His eyes flew open and his hands grasped at his friend's loose clothing, as he registered Trowa kissing him: Trowa's hand at his cheek, Trowa's fingers in his hair. Trowa's fingers traced his ear, his jaw, now his chin coaxing him to open his mouth, and then Trowa's tongue slipped between his lips, wet and hot and tasting like chocolate from his dessert.

And then gone.

"Does that answer your question?" Trowa asked softly, stepping back.

Quatre saw bitterness twist his friend's lips, sadness in his eyes. "No, I don't understand, what-?" What had Trowa thought his question was going to be?

"Quatre, please, no more questions tonight. I'm tired, and you've had too much to drink."

"Trowa-" he protested.

"Please, Cat? Let's just walk together?"


	4. Chapter 4

At some point Quatre stopped caring about Megan, about Duo, about the wretched past years of failed opportunity. Trowa had kissed him, and now, he sat on the edge of the bed with Trowa touching him.

"It's okay, I don't need my pyjamas," he told his friend who was unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and had just inquired about the location of Quatre's night clothes.

"You always used to sleep in them," Trowa said, reaching now to unknot Quatre's tie.

"It's too hot and muggy." As much as the thought of Trowa undressing him appealed, Quatre wasn't quite so out of sorts that he needed Trowa mothering him. He tugged his shirt tails free of his pants and began unbuttoning his shirt. The slippery pearl buttons were stubborn little bastards though. He told them so.

Soon Trowa chuckled and batted Quatre's hands away. "See? You are cute when you're drunk."

"I don't want to be."

"What? Drunk?"

"No, not that, and I told you I'm not drunk. I don't want to be cute. I'd rather be..." Quatre shrugged and fell back from his friend to lie on the bed, though his legs remained draped over the side, and his feet on the floor. The air stirred by the ceiling fan felt wonderfully cool across his bared chest. He closed his eyes and whispered, "I'd rather be sexy. Especially to you."

A long pause ensued wherein Quatre hoped for some acknowledgement from Trowa. Instead he felt his feet lifted from the floor, one at a time, and his shoes and socks pulled off. "Don't say things like that if you don't mean them."

"I do mean it."

"Maybe right now. But I'm not sure it's not the champagne talking."

Quatre huffed and sat back up. Trowa didn't meet his eyes. "Fine," he said. "My pyjamas are under my pillow."

 

Quatre woke thirsty. A glance at the digital clock's red numbers confirmed the late -- or early -- hour. Just after three in the morning. His mouth tasted of stale champagne and toothpaste, and he needed a glass of water, but other than that, his head felt clear. Nothing spun in his peripheral vision when he sat and got out of bed.

Sudden light on the bright surfaces of the bathroom caused him to squint and grimace. He filled a glass quickly, drank it all, and filled it a second time before shutting the lights off again and returning to the bedroom.

Setting the glass down carefully so as to avoid disturbing Trowa, he sat back on the bed, cross-legged. The night here was utterly still and silent -- even the insects had fallen quiet. It reminded him of the desert, except that the air held too much warmth and moisture at this small hour.

He glanced over at his friend, expecting Trowa to be asleep. He nearly jumped when he noticed the glitter of Trowa's open eyes in the dark. "Did I wake you?"

"No."

"Good." Quatre smiled though there wasn't enough ambient light to illuminate his expression clearly.

"Are you sober?" Trowa spoke quietly, as if he didn't want to wake the night.

Quatre matched his serious tone. "Am I cute?"

"No, not so much now."

"Then I'm sober."

"Good." Trowa's dark shape moved with a rustle of bedclothes. Closer now, Trowa sat up against his pillows. "Did you mean it?" The hope in Trowa's question was unmistakable.

"I did."

The darkness grew heavy as time stretched between them. Quatre lay back down, and waited for Trowa to say or do something.

When Trowa spoke again, it was in a scarce whisper. "I don't want to make love to you now and wake up later -- in a few days, or a few months -- to find you gone, or wake up to find your wedding pictures plastered all over the latest gossip rags."

Quatre shook his head against his pillow and sighed. "If that were even possible, Trowa, I wouldn't be here with you now. I wouldn't do that to you." He laughed without humour. "I wouldn't even do that to myself."

"Why didn't you tell me how you felt sooner?"

"I was too scared, of too many things. I wanted to, but it didn't seem like you were interested in pursuing anything."

"You could have just asked me."

Of course that had always been an obvious solution, but some questions were never asked because their answers were feared. "Well, I'm asking now."

"What's the question, Quatre?"

Such a simple, small question it was: more of a formality than anything else. It was silly to hesitate, but Quatre's first few attempts at speech lacked air. Trowa waited patiently, silently.

Finally, Quatre took a slow, deep breath and closed his eyes. "Do you still want me?"

Long fingers wrapped about Quatre's wrist, drawing it to Trowa's lips. He turned Quatre's hand, straightened its fingers, and pressed a kiss to its palm. "Can't you tell?"

That simple touch of lips and breath, its effect was immediate and electric. Quatre's whole body thrilled at it, but his sense of Trowa was no clearer than it had been. He panted to catch his breath, though his heart still raced in his chest. "Not any more," he admitted.

"Ah," said Trowa, and Quatre's arm was tugged. He leaned close as his friend guided his hand lower, under the sheet that covered Trowa from the waist down. Their eyes locked in the dark, and suddenly Quatre found his hand pressed against heated steel. "Can you tell now?" was Trowa's murmured query.

"Yes," Quatre breathed and moved his hand a little over the rigid shape of Trowa's desire. Although fabric barred him from a more thorough exploration, he pulled his fingertips over the heavy softness below the stiff length, and then curled his fingers around Trowa's erection relishing the solid reality of that contact. Trowa made a soft sound of approval, and squeezed Quatre's wrist in encouragement.

But it was too dark. Quatre wanted to do more than just touch and piece together shadowed movements in the gloom. "Wait," he said, pulling his hand away and out of Trowa's grip. "If we're going to do this, I want to be able to see you."

Trowa answered by leaning away and clicked on his bedside lamp. Soft yellow light washed over the bed and its occupants. Sleep rumpled and chaotic, Trowa's hair drew Quatre's attention first, but then his gaze slid to the green eyes, blinking rapidly to adjust to the light. For the first time, Quatre felt it permissible to let himself openly admire Trowa, dressed in a too-small grey t-shirt and blue striped boxer shorts. The strip of muscled abdomen and the tops of slender thighs not hidden beneath either t-shirt or sheet tempted Quatre to return his hands to Trowa's body immediately, but he knew they needed more preparation than illumination.

Besides, the sight of Trowa, disheveled and aroused deserved comment. "You're cute when you're turned on."

"You'd better be talking to the lamp," Trowa rejoined seriously, but the corners of his lips twitched, belying his amusement.

Quatre laughed and rolled to his stomach, scooting over to reach his own bedside table. One thing his rampant daydreams had done was ensure he prepared for this eventuality. He jerked out the small drawer, and there, next to the ubiquitous Gideon Bible, he snatched up the less common tube of lubricant.

And nearly dropped it when Trowa's hands closed over the waistband of his pyjama bottoms to haul them down his legs and off with none of the patience Trowa had shown the removal of his clothes earlier.

"You planned for this?" came Trowa's voice behind him, its usual smooth cadence roughened by arousal. "You have no idea how... much cuter that makes me feel." The words wafted humid across the bare flesh of Quatre's rear, followed by a gentle bite and soothing kiss.

The only reply Quatre managed was a whimpered grunt at the hand which slid beneath his body to take possession of his erection. Fresh heat throbbed to his groin in response as Trowa, without releasing his aching shaft, prompted him to bend his knees and lift his backside off the bed.

Any residual thoughts of leisurely foreplay met their destruction in the fierce blaze of desire that tore through Quatre's body. Maybe this wasn't how he'd imagined it would be, but this was infinitely better than his most torrid fantasy: this was real. He braced himself against the corner of the nightstand with one hand and buried his face in the bunched up bedding beneath his chest. In his other hand he still gripped the lubricant.

A tentative lick tickled the base of his spine and slid a short distance between his buttocks before Trowa paused and asked, "Am I going too fast?"

Quatre shook his head no and lifted it to take a breath, one which turned rapidly to a shaky, pleasured moan when Trowa's tongue returned to him slick, hot, and maddeningly agile. The warm, tight grip on his cock moved in short, sharp strokes, while the fingers of Trowa's other hand moved to spread open the cleft of his rear, better exposing him to the workings of that eager tongue.

Trowa released his shaft so both hands could hold his buttocks apart and his hips immobile. Hot fluid pleasure danced around his anus, trickled down to his testicles, and then oozed back up to submerge itself in his body -- to take its time in a long, languid tasting of him.

A fierce pressure mounted in his loins, raging its demands for relief along every nerve in Quatre's quivering body. He was too hot, couldn't breathe, wanted more of the hands and mouth tormenting him, wanted them to drive him beyond sanity to a different kind of clarity.

Trowa's mouth retreated, and Quatre let out a surprised yelp when he was dragged backwards to the middle of the bed. "Turn over," Trowa said from behind and above him. "I want to see you too."

Breathless, he complied and opened his eyes to see Trowa return his shaky smile. He watched, his gaze greedy, as Trowa moved quickly to strip off his boxers and t-shirt, revealing his coveted acrobat's physique. Quatre followed suit, pulling his pyjama top over his head without bothering to unbutton it.

"Yes, very sexy," Trowa purred, and before Quatre had fully disentangled his arms from his sleeves, he was subjected to another sensory assault. Straddling Quatre's legs, Trowa lowered his head to suck Quatre's cock between his lips.

A surprising intensity of sensation seized him: liquid heat and suction -- all focused at the apex of his desire. No amount of imagining had prepared him for the perfect bliss of Trowa's mouth encompassing him in this dizzying pleasure. Dimly he was aware of Trowa prying the tightly held tube from his hand. He was more aware when a hand prompted him to spread and bend his legs.

He hadn't thought anything could surpass the glorious ministry of Trowa's lips, tongue, and throat until a slippery finger dipped beneath his testicles to circle his anus. It had an amplifying effect; an uncontrolled tremor rippled through his thighs and he nearly choked on the air he breathed.

When the digit eased inside, he shouted and sobbed. Any vestiges of control he held over his body vanished in the wake of the new pressure inside him -- focused and resolute, it coupled with the rhapsody of Trowa's mouth and drove him to a single, inescapable conclusion.

"Tro... OH!" he cried, the strength of his orgasm forcing him half upright to clutch at the bed linens with spasming fists.

Arms wrapped about his waist, and Trowa released his cock, pulling Quatre up to a seated position, while laying a series of breathless kisses up his torso until their lips met. Quatre's mind spun, vaguely bemused that this was only their second kiss, wondering at the heady taste of sex that clung to Trowa's lips, and realising that his friend tasted of him.

Their limbs tangled and untangled in several trials of an ideal arrangement, which ended with Trowa on his back beneath Quatre's spread legs. Already, Quatre found his body recovering; he lowered himself for another kiss, slow and exploratory, as if to memorise the textures and tastes of his new lover's kisses. From Trowa's mouth down his neck Quatre's lips traveled, and he scooted back until he felt the head of Trowa's erection bump and slide against his backside. Though he'd never done this before, all trepidation vanished as he reached behind himself to take that stiff cock in hand and guided it to his entrance. Everything felt right, and Trowa had prepared him well.

Nevertheless, he caught his breath as he pressed back experimentally, and his body began to yield to its hopeful intruder. Lifting his head from the kiss he studied Trowa's face, looking for signs he was doing it right. Trowa laid trembling hands on his thighs, his features a portrait of euphoric anticipation, with dark eyes and swollen lips. "Quatre..." he murmured.

Making sure his breathing remained slow and even, and his body relaxed, Quatre straightened to let gravity aid him in the process of taking in Trowa's length. His awareness constricted to the invading thickness, stretching him impossibly, driving inch by heated inch deep into his gut. By the time he'd settled, allowing his weight to shift a little from his knees to his rear, he was sweating, short of breath, and afraid to move immediately.

His recovering erection had flagged, but as his body began to better relax into its new task, he felt his flesh stirring again. Trowa, for his part, had remained passive, contributing only the occasional reassuring pressure of a hand, or a whispered encouragement. But now, Quatre could see in Trowa's face the change their joining had wrought. None of his usual placid expression was present. Rather, his eyelids drooped, shading the darkened green irises, while his brow creased and jaw clenched in concentration. His breath came fast through his nose, and his pale complexion flushed bright with arousal.

"Please..." Trowa gritted out, and slid his hands to Quatre's hips, tugging them forward in a suggestion for movement. So Quatre moved.

He cried out at the pressure that blossomed within him and, bracing his hands on Trowa's forearms, trusted his partner's to guide his movements -- starting with a gentle rocking of his hips forward and backward.

Once they were moving together easily, Trowa mumbled, "That's... ah, that's good." His hands applied an upward suggestion, so Quatre adapted his rhythm to lift his hips a little when he swayed forward and to drop down when he pushed back.

The addition of friction to the mix made his vision blur, so he increased his pace, letting the pleasure build within him as it would. Trowa's panting breaths had changed to soft moans, and his fingers tightened their grip. Soon Quatre cared less about the actual mechanics of what he was doing and simply allowed sensation to guide him, swiveling his hips from side to side, or jerking them against Trowa a little harder. Each variation pulled different tensions from Trowa's body -- and different sounds of pleasure. It was hard to know what was best, and since it all tasted like different flavours of incredible to him, Quatre kept playing.

But Trowa was less patient. He sat up suddenly and rolled them over so that Quatre was pinned beneath him. "You're okay?" Trowa panted, bringing his knees beneath him. He leaned forward, hooking his elbows under Quatre's legs to pull Quatre's hips up and curve his spine off the bed.

"Oh... yes," Quatre hissed, and then his senses shattered. It didn't seem possible that Trowa could have been any deeper inside him or stroked him more ecstatically, but as his lover began to move, pulling out and driving back in with long, powerful thrusts Quatre abandoned any attempt at comprehending the rapture ravishing his body.

Faster Trowa drove into him, each searing stroke sending shockwaves through his entire being, and Quatre spiraled further into delirium. A stray thought anchored in his mind: this was being fucked -- deeply, deliciously, decadently.

Trowa's body strove against his, hot and slick with sweat. Quatre reveled in the hardness of that body, in the strength and grace it possessed that was so uniquely Trowa's. Trowa bent near, his lips dragged against Quatre's cheek, breathing harshly as his tongue flicked out touch his earlobe. "Can you come... like this?" Trowa asked. "Is it enough?" He gasped out each syllable between thrusts. "I can touch you."

The ensuing eruption of pleasure within Quatre rendered Trowa's question irrelevant. It was like the words triggered it: a perfect cascade of sensation that started as soon as Quatre opened his mouth to reply. "I d- oh ooh... Oh!"

He barely heard Trowa's own whimpered completion. "God... Cat..."

Blinking and gasping for oxygen, Quatre trembled as Trowa shifted above him, letting Quatre's legs slide back down to the bed but not withdrawing completely from his body. A hand glided across his belly, through the hot fluid of his release, spreading it over his stomach and chest in a soothing, lazy caress. Slick fingertips found a nipple and lingered to toy with the tender nub.

Quatre hummed his contentment; his eyes finally managed to focus and found his lover's face hovering above him. Though his cheeks were still flushed, Trowa's expression was serene with features relaxed and lips curved by a shallow smile of satisfaction.

"Comfortable enough?" he asked.

"For now." Quatre grinned. "But I'm going to need a shower before we do it again."

"It's a good thing the shower's big enough for two."

"I don't think I'll be able to manage on my own."

They didn't speak for a time. It was enough to simply lie together intertwined and lax, adjusting to the reality of their situation with wondering touches and slow kisses. Eventually though, Trowa's smile waned, and his expression grew more serious. "Quatre-?"

But Quatre wasn't yet ready for whatever Trowa was going to ask him. "Shh," he said and reached up to pull his old friend and new lover down for another kiss. They needed to talk about this new phase of their relationship soon, but for now, he just wanted to make up for lost time.

Somewhere, later that morning, entangled with Trowa and drifting in post-coital bliss, Quatre didn't find it; it found him. A new sense of Trowa, diffuse and warm, permeated his mind. It wasn't as strong as the old feeling, but it was a start.


	5. Epilogue

The remainder of their vacation passed in a dazzling blur of intimacy restored and the unquenchable desire of their nascent affair. Too soon it was their last evening together on Earth. Quatre was relieved that it would only be another four weeks before he'd see Trowa again. It was four weeks until the circus completed their summer tour and broke for their autumn break.

At that time, Trowa planned to relocate to L4, where he intended to lease his own apartment and find employment. They'd discussed moving in together, but had decided that rather than rushing into such a domestic commitment; it would be better—not to mention more fun—to take their time courting one another properly.

As for the media attention Quatre's broken engagement and newly revealed sexual orientation would draw? Trowa had already expressed his lack of perturbation at such attention. As a performer, he was equipped well enough to handle the spotlight. Quatre had long ago realised that no publicity was truly bad publicity when one had a good PR department. It was time enough to live his life for himself.

And so, their last evening found them sprawled in bed with the remnants of their room service dinner littering the serving cart and nearby table. Sunset draped Trowa's prone form with its gossamer colours: warm gold and deep orange, delicate pink and dusky violet. Quatre's new lover's eyes were drowsy beneath heavy eyelids, but Trowa's mouth eased into a slow smile in appreciation of the hand wandering along his back.

Quatre savoured the smooth warmth of Trowa's skin, sleek over the angles and curves of his nude body. He trailed his fingers to one contour in particular, letting his hand wander back and forth over the firm swell of Trowa's backside, and then linger on the more concave turn the muscles took where his buttocks met the backs of his thighs. Trowa's smile widened, and he stretched, cat-like, under Quatre's touch.

It was the easy smile, the new smile that went with Trowa's shorter hair and greater social ease. Quatre had to know. "Who taught you to smile like that anyway?"

Trowa raised his eyebrows. "You did."

 

 **the end**


End file.
